Don't You Remember
by okaynextcrisis
Summary: Bill wakes up in the hospital without any memory of the past five years. A modern AU in short scenes.
1. Chapter 1

_If you follow me on tumblr, then yes, this is amnesia AU, which you've already read. But for anybody who hasn't read it and is so inclined (all two of you), I thought I'd post it now, before my little 2015-set fic was suddenly last year._

* * *

His name was Bill Adama, he answered over and over again. An exhausting parade of doctors and nurses and specialists in scrubs had asked the same questions since he'd woken up in this hospital bed an hour before. His birthday was January 12. He remembered getting on his motorcycle, but he didn't remember riding through a storm or losing control and smashing through the guardrail. He was a professor of military history at Berkeley. His mother's name was Evelyn. The year was 2010.

* * *

"You have a five-year gap," Dr. Cottle informed him briskly, while Bill was still staring at a newspaper with 2015 printed at the top. "Your memories might come back, or they might not."

Bill watched, speechless, as Cottle casually lit a cigarette.

"The best thing for you," Cottle continued, "is familiar surroundings. Go home, take up your normal routine, and hope that things fall into place."

"And what if they don't?" Bill demanded. "How am I supposed to go on with my life missing five years?"

Cottle grunted. "I'm a neurologist, not a psychic. How should I know?

"And on that note," Cottle continued, as Bill tried to formulate a protest, "you have a visitor."

* * *

She sat in the chair by his bed, her long legs crossed, her hands clasped at her knees. Something in the ease of her posture made him think that she'd sat in that chair before, while he lay there unconscious, and the knowledge sent an uneasy shiver down his spine.

"I wanted to be here when you woke up," she began. "I was here all night, but this morning I had a case in court…"

 _Court_. The tightness in Bill's chest relaxed a fraction. Her neat black suit, Cottle's deference toward her, her presence in his hospital room…it all made sense now.

"So are you my lawyer, or are you representing the insurance company?" he prompted.

Her wry smile made him feel like he was handing in a test he already knew he'd failed. She held out her hand. "I'm Laura Roslin," she said. "I'm your wife."

* * *

"That's not possible."

This had to be a scam; maybe they were all in on it–

This woman–Laura, if he was to believe her–sighed. "I understand how confusing this must be for you," she said. "But if you let me help you, I know we can get through this…"

"How long have we known each other?" Bill interrupted.

"Four years," she answered promptly. "We've been married for nearly three."

"How did we meet?" he demanded.

She smiled, and it grated on him, like a private joke he knew was at his expense. "I was at the airport waiting for my flight to board, and I was nursing a drink and watching the news on the TV behind the bar. I made a comment to the bartender about a story about Defense spending, and you overheard and told me that it was people like me who were going to lead our nation into ruin. It turned out that we were on the same flight, and we argued all the way to Boston, and when we landed you took me to dinner. We've been together ever since."

It was a lovely story, and not one moment of it sounded familiar.

He cleared his throat. "Why was I flying to Boston?"

He pretended not to notice the smile fall away from her face. "You were offered a job as the head of the history department at Harvard."

It was the first part of his new life that sounded even remotely like him, and it hadn't happened.

"Why didn't I take it?"

She brushed a strand of red hair away from her face, and his eyes caught on a plain gold band he had no memory of placing on her finger. "You met me."

* * *

"I sold my apartment?" Bill repeated, as Laura pulled into the driveway of a little blue-shuttered house up in the hills that he was positive he'd never seen before in his life.

When the hospital had released him, and he had agreed with Cottle and Laura that the only thing to do was to try to resume his normal life, it had never occurred to him that home…wouldn't be.

Her knuckles were white on the wheel, but her voice was calm. "You found this house yourself. You called me at work and dragged me out here to see it on my lunch break because you wanted to put in an offer immediately. You said you'd found our home."

Bill avoided her eyes as he got out of the car and followed her up the steps of a wooden porch that wasn't his taste at all. He watched her unlock a door that he knew he must have stepped through a thousand times.

Inside, as Laura led him on an awkward tour of his own home, there was no doubt that he lived here. His books filled the shelves; his clothes hung in the closet; his glasses sat on the night table.

He stopped short at the foot of the bed.

"I'll stay in the guest room, of course," Laura said quickly, misinterpreting his hesitation.

Hung on the wall was a picture of the two of them, pressed close together, the ocean in the distance. The light was fading, and the wind had ruffled their hair and nice clothes, and he'd never seen himself smile so big in all his life.

"Was that our wedding?" he asked.

He tried not to see the hope flare in her green eyes. "You remember?"

He turned away. "No. I'm sorry."

But for the first time, he wished he did.


	2. Chapter 2

It took long, strained moments after he opened his eyes for Bill to place the big unfamiliar bed, the strange slant of the sunlight from the tall, east-facing windows, the smell of fresh coffee brewing in the other room. He felt awkward dressing before he'd even had his first sip; in his own house, wouldn't he just stumble to the kitchen in his pajamas?

But this wasn't his home anymore, not really, and the woman in the other room wasn't his wife, and even a bathrobe felt too open, too intimate.

* * *

Laura was in the kitchen, dressed for work (or so he assumed) in a gray skirt and a crisp green shirt, her feet bare. He wondered if she was always so put together at this hour, or if the strangeness of their situation had put her off balance, too.

"Morning," he offered.

If her smile was a little forced, he told himself, so was his.

He didn't recognize the coffeemaker (was it hers, or had they bought it together?) but it was his favorite mug in the cabinet above. He held out the carafe towards the cup in Laura's hand.

She shook her head. "I drink tea."

* * *

Laura hovered as he made his way around the small, cozy kitchen, but _What do I like for breakfast_ wasn't a question Bill was prepared to ask as an adult, so he pressed on, rummaging through a refrigerator stocked with unfamiliar brands until he found a carton of eggs and a package of bacon.

He glanced up to find Laura watching him carefully over the rim of her cup. "Is something wrong?"

She took a slow sip of her tea. "You're a vegetarian now."

He dropped the bacon, stricken.

Laura flashed a smile. "Kidding."

* * *

He ate mostly in silence, nodding occasionally as Laura talked: she'd taken the morning off, she'd already spoken to the head of his department about medical leave, the important thing was that he rest and relax.

He watched her, trying to find what it was about her that had made his past self change so much. Red hair, wild in the picture in the bedroom, neatly styled now. Green eyes behind simple frames, with shadows darkening beneath for which he guessed his accident carried the blame. Long pale legs tucked beneath the table, her knees not quite brushing his. She wasn't unattractive, clearly. She'd been nothing but helpful and supportive; a moment ago, she'd even made him laugh. But the quality he'd clearly been so taken by, the particular algorithm of traits for the sake of which he'd given up his beloved apartment, turned down the job of a lifetime…he couldn't see it at all.

* * *

"Is there anything you'd like to ask me?" Laura said at last.

 _Why don't I recognize my life?_ wasn't a question he was prepared to voice out loud.

He'd been in love with her once, on that day in the picture. He had to believe that. But this house, this life…had it really been his dream? Did he truly not ache for what he'd given up?

He cleared his throat. "How do you take your tea?"


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" Laura asked for the third time, shifting from one high-heeled foot to another. Fifteen minutes ago, she'd announced she was leaving for work; she was still standing in the kitchen, keys in hand, in front of the exhaustive list of emergency numbers, instructions, and reminders she'd prepared for him.

Bill felt all of ten years old, left at home alone for an hour for the first time without a babysitter. "I think I'll manage," he said politely.

Her lips tightened in a rueful smile. "Of course."

This was difficult for her, too, he reminded himself. She was faced with a stranger now, just as he was.

With a deliberate effort, he relaxed his grip on the counter and forced his lips into a smile. "Have a good day at work," he said firmly.

* * *

Finally alone in the house (try as he might, he couldn't seem to think of it as "his") his chest loosened, his breathing eased. He wandered the rooms, slowly, searching for…something.

His old brown sofa sat in the living room. He brushed a hand across the worn, cracked leather, feeling the missing five years in the deepened creases, the buttery softness of the finish.

There was a red blanket neatly folded atop one arm. He raised it to his nose, breathing in a scent that he recognized as his and another, lighter scent, almost floral, mingling in the thick wool.

A week ago, had they curled up together here, shared this blanket, laughingly argued over the remote?

He kept moving.

* * *

His office came as a relief. Even if he didn't recognize the particular papers and books crowding the desk, if he had no memory of penning the comments in his handwriting, the space was a familiar, comforting one. It was his favorite brand of ballpoints stocked in the top drawer, his carefully labeled files filling the cabinet, his published articles and books meticulously organized on the shelf.

He thumbed open a hardcover with his name printed on the spine, below _Brace For Contact: First-Hand Accounts of Twenty-First Century Military Engagement._ So he had written this book, after all; five years ago, it had been only an idea, a few notes, the bare beginnings of a draft…

He flipped past title pages, a table of contents, acknowledgements he supposed he must have meant, to a dedication.

 _For Laura, who makes the fight worthwhile._

* * *

Last night, he'd been too exhausted to do much but collapse into the strange new bed, swallow a few of the painkillers Laura had doled out, and let his weariness carry him into a thick, uneasy sleep. Now, he studied the warm comforter, the pale, crisp sheets; had they shopped for these together, stood in stores and debated thread counts and color schemes?

One night table held a lamp, his glasses, a book he had no memory of starting. The other side of the bed–Laura's side, he reminded himself–was empty, her pillow gone to the bed in the guest room. The matching table was just as uninformative; she must have moved the rest of her things to the other room before she'd brought him home from the hospital.

Her thoughtfulness touched him, but it didn't help him.

This woman was his wife, and he still didn't know anything about her.

* * *

He paused in front of the closed door of the guest room, the only place in the house he had yet to see. He wasn't sure if he should go in; wasn't this Laura's room now, her private space?

But he wanted to make this new life work, didn't he? He wanted to belong here, to remember how to be a husband again.

He took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.

The guest room wasn't a guest room at all. It was another office, messier than his, a desk in one corner and a small loveseat hugging the wall opposite, a pillow and blanket left on its wrinkled cushions. He smoothed the white pillowcase that matched the sheets on his bed and a faded afghan that held the same scent as the one in the living room.

Guilt tightened his stomach. He'd thought she'd spent last night sleeping in a real bed, not camped out on a cramped little couch.

Her desk was strewn with books. He crept closer to read the titles…and flushed. Memory loss, traumatic head injuries…had she sat up last night, researching, trying to figure out how to fix what had happened to him?

He felt worse than ever.

And he still didn't know her at all.


	4. Chapter 4

"Tell me about you."

Laura paused, her chopsticks halfway to her mouth.

She'd brought home piping-hot spicy noodles "from your favorite place," although the name printed on the brown paper takeout bag was an unfamiliar one. He'd made up his mind to express enthusiasm, no matter what; he could see the effort Laura was making to try to make him comfortable. But one mouthful of the noodles, sweet and peppery, and his noises of appreciation had no longer been faked.

"I don't know anything about you," Bill continued. "You know everything about me–"

"Not everything," Laura offered. "You never would tell me how you got that scar on your hip."

Bill grimaced; the story behind that scar was _not_ one of the memories he had lost. "Nice try."

For the first time, her laughter didn't sound faked, either.

* * *

"Are you from California originally?" Bill asked.

Laura hadn't objected to talking about herself, not out loud, but she hadn't been particularly forthcoming, either. He understood; he wouldn't have known how to introduce himself, either. Maybe she just needed a little help getting started.

She shook her head. "Boston. I moved here after…about ten years ago."

"And when we met, you were flying back," Bill supplied, pleased to finally have a grip on some part of their story. "Were you visiting family?"

Laura got to her feet and began clearing the dishes. "More or less."

This was going to be harder than he'd thought.

* * *

"You said you're a lawyer," Bill prompted.

Laura visibly relaxed at the change in subject, her tight grip easing on the cup of tea she'd prepared–as a stalling tactic, he couldn't help but think. Was she was always this cagey about her past, or if it was the discomfort of their situation, the strangeness of being cross-examined by someone who should already know everything about her?

"Constitutional law, mostly. I specialize in conflicts between national security issues and individual freedoms."

Bill nodded. It made a certain amount of sense; he would have found that interesting, would have enjoyed hearing about her work. He tried to picture Laura coming home at the end of the day, throwing her briefcase down and ranting about a troublesome new client or a particularly difficult judge, tried to imagine them debating privacy law and precedent over sushi rolls. It was a lovely picture…

He rubbed his forehead. Why couldn't he _remember_?

A concerned line furrowed Laura's brow. "Are you all right?"

* * *

"I talked to Saul," Laura said, resting her elbow against the couch, her head propped in her hand. Her bare feet were tucked underneath her, her heels shed under the table some time during dinner.

They had moved here from the kitchen afterwards, Bill hoping that it would make their conversation more relaxed, less like a job interview. But sitting side by side on his old couch only seemed to have amplified the distance between them.

"He'll be flying in tomorrow morning," she continued. "He would have been here last night, but there was a problem at Ellen's treatment facility…"

Apparently, some things _didn't_ change.

"I'll be glad to see him," Bill said honestly.

It would be a relief to be with anyone he remembered, at this point. Maybe Saul could help fill in some of the missing pieces for him…

Laura's smile turned wry. "I would imagine."

They lapsed into silence.

* * *

She gathered her hair over one shoulder, one coppery wave escaping her grip. Bill's fingers unexpectedly ached to tuck the wayward strand behind her ear. But the gesture felt too familiar, too intimate from someone who'd become a stranger.

He clasped his hands together.

"I majored in political science at Amherst," Laura said at last. "I do miss seasons. I read gardening tips even though I've never been able to keep even a cactus alive. I hate doing dishes. I never wear orange. I have a longstanding feud with the GPS in my car."

Finally, a real conversation, even if Bill wasn't sure what that last part meant.

"I spent some time up in New England after grad school," he offered. "I wrote an article on Colonial military defenses…"

Laura nodded as he talked about his findings, asking occasional questions about battles or dates whenever he fell silent.

It was only later, lying alone in their room, that it occurred to him that she would have already heard that story, five years ago.


	5. Chapter 5

_A sharp wind bent the bare limbs of trees against the dark sky, fluttering loose strands of hair, tugging the edges of clothing, but he wasn't cold, not really. A scratchy blanket held off the chill of the sand beneath him. And there was a warmth beside him: a soft cheek pressed against his, an arm curled protectively around his chest, a gentle heat against the length of his body._

 _He wanted to stay in this moment forever._

 _But his heart pounded beneath layers of flannel and wool–could she hear it?–reminding him that he still hadn't done what he'd come here to do._

 _He cleared his throat; there was something he had to ask–_

A brisk rap on the door startled him awake, and suddenly he was in his bed, alone again, aching with an absence he couldn't explain.

* * *

"Laura," he asked over breakfast, "have we ever been camping?"

Her lips quirked. "Not unless you count that weekend we spent in Saul and Ellen's guest room." Then, curiously: "Why?"

He ignored the disappointment that burned through him. Just a dream, then, after all; just more wishful thinking.

"I had a strange dream," was all he said. "I thought it might have been based on something, that's all."

He could hear her frown in her voice. "What did–"

The front door slammed open, and a blessedly familiar voice thundered through the house.

"I've been calling for two days, Bill," Saul complained. "Are you telling me you've forgotten how to use a phone?"

* * *

Saul, at least, had had the good grace to stay as Bill remembered him. A little less hair on top of his head, a few more lines around his eyes–but as his oldest friend dumped his ancient army surplus bag on the kitchen floor, kissed Laura's cheek, and poured himself a cup of coffee, still harping on Bill's irresponsibility, Bill felt the safest he had since he'd woken up in that hospital bed.

* * *

Saul and Laura made pleasant conversation, about Saul's flight and Ellen's latest stab at sobriety, until Laura announced that she was heading out for a run, and would be back later.

Bill smiled gratefully. "Be careful."

His friend's keen eye followed her out the door. "You really don't remember her at all?"

"Not a thing," Bill admitted. He and Saul had known each other too long for pretense.

Saul whistled. "When she called me from the hospital, she said as much…but damn…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

Bill's sigh was impatient. He didn't need sympathy; he needed answers.

"But _you_ must," he insisted. "I don't remember meeting her, but you must remember hearing about it, right?"

Saul snorted. "Of course I do. You didn't talk about anything but that Harvard job for months, and then you called me after the interview and said you were having second thoughts because of some woman you sat next to on a plane. I hung up and told Ellen you'd lost your mind."

Bill dropped his head in his hands. Maybe that was the answer; maybe he had.

"But that was before I met her," Saul added quickly.

Bill raised his head. "What did you think then?" he prompted warily, no longer sure he wanted to know.

Saul shrugged. "That it didn't matter what I thought–you were _gone_. I've known you for thirty years, man, and I've never seen you look at anyone the way you were looking at her. I knew from that first lunch that you were going to marry her." He smirked. "Of course, it took _you_ a while longer to figure it out, but that didn't surprise me, either."

For a moment, Bill was silent. He wondered if what he was feeling could be called grief, if it was possible to miss something he couldn't remember losing.

"You said it was like coming home," Saul said at last. "Finding Laura. That for the first time in your life, you knew you were where you were supposed to be." He hesitated. "Maybe…maybe you can find her again."

* * *

Dinner was easier with someone else there to fill the silence. Saul tried to catch him up on five years' worth of football scores; Laura's wry descriptions of music and movies and the operatic downfalls of various celebrities made him laugh, even as it made him ache.

Maybe Saul was right. Maybe he and Laura could find each other again.

But after the dishes were washed and dried, and Saul headed home, the silence fell again.

"It's been a long day," Bill offered. "I think I'll turn in early."

Laura nodded. "Have a good night."

He was halfway down the hallway when she called after him.

"Could it have been the ocean?"

He stopped, confused.

"Your dream," Laura explained. "We never went camping, but when you found out I'd lived in California for two years and had never been to the beach, we drove up to Big Sur for the weekend. But then a cold front moved in, and it was _freezing_ –"

"–and it got dark, and we huddled together on a blanket trying to stay warm," Bill finished. He thought his stupid grin might split his face in two. "I remember."

He didn't know her middle name or her birthday. He didn't remember saying his vows or signing the papers for this house. But just now, in this moment, when the smile dawned on her face, when his arms went around her and a heartbeat later, hers tightened around him, it was enough.


	6. Epilogue

Their first kiss was an accident; they'd just finished scrambled eggs and toast, and he was just setting down his cooling cup of coffee and pushing back his chair to head off to his first day back at work. He wouldn't be teaching any classes this semester, there was too much to catch up on, but he'd be keeping regular office hours, helping with research, getting back into the flow of things.

"Have a good day," Laura said absently, flicking through a motion to be filed on behalf of her latest client, her pen moving across language to be refined, questions still to be asked…and then he was leaning across the table and touching his lips to hers.

A moment later, realizing what he'd done, he pulled away.

"Habit?" he suggested, ignoring the sheepish flush spreading across his cheeks.

And then Laura's fingers grasped his shirt to pull him closer, and "Habit" was what he heard her murmur before her lips found his again.

Their first kiss. But not their last.

* * *

She told him about the accident, as rain pounded on the roof the way it had the night he'd never come home: the sky growing dark, the noodles cooling in their greasy paper containers, the call, finally, from the number she didn't recognize. Her head rested against his chest as she told him about another day, nearly a decade ago, another accident, police officers at her door instead of on her phone.

He imagined the Laura he knew now, driving through the rain, _head trauma, possible brain damage, still unresponsive_ echoing in her head. He thought about her sitting in that waiting room, alone, with no one beside her; he thought about the man whose hand she'd held all night long waking up no longer recognizing her face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Bill…" Her soft voice was close to his ear. "We can get through this, can't we?"

He brushed her cheek. "Nobody's going anywhere," he promised.

* * *

Drying dishes beside her one night, it finally occurred to him to ask.

"Laura…what happened to my ring? Was it lost in the accident, or…"

It had been a good day. He hadn't recognized the student who'd come to his office for advice on her thesis, but he'd been able to help her anyway, he'd thought. He and Dee had an appointment for the following Thursday, and the Thursday after that; he was excited to have a project again, to be working towards something. He'd come home, ordered those noodles he loved (he knew the name of the place and their number by now), looking forward to telling Laura all about it over dinner, to hearing about the outcome of Tom Zarek's latest appeal. Days ago, they'd had their first real argument over her decision to take Zarek on as a client–but the choice hadn't been his to make, and now he followed the developments of the case the way his grandmother used to follow _All My Children_.

Laura paused…and then she reached for the delicate chain she'd worn for as long as he could remember, and the plain gold band that had hung beneath her shirt all this time.

"They took it off at the hospital for the scans," she explained, fingers worrying the chain. "After…it didn't seem fair to hold you to something you didn't remember."

He reached out to touch the ring he knew was his, even if he had no memory of wearing it.

He could decide he wasn't ready. A few memories had come back; flashes, mostly, moments from his life that Laura had helped him piece together. Cottle was hopeful that his memory loss might be temporary. He could wait.

But even if none of it came back, he knew he'd already made his choice.

Gently, he undid the chain around Laura's neck and slipped the ring back on his finger.

He kissed her forehead. "Thank you for holding onto this for me."

* * *

He caught her rubbing her lower back as she bent to retrieve a load of laundry from the dryer, one quiet Sunday afternoon. He paused in his folding. "You okay?"

"It's nothing," she said, shaking her head impatiently.

He watched her for a moment, the sunlight streaming through the window glinting off her hair, warming her porcelain skin. Was this what he'd seen, that day in the airport? Had he known, in that instant, that everything was about to change?

He might never know.

But he was so thankful that it had.

"It's time for you to stop sleeping on the couch," he said.

She rolled her eyes, already turning back to the dryer. "It's really nothing, Bill."

He cleared his throat. "Laura," he tried again, inexplicably nervous in this moment. "It's time for you to stop sleeping on the couch."

Their laundry lay forgotten.

* * *

They drove up to the coast one weekend, just before the weather turned cold, stood on the exact spot on the beach where they'd been married. Bill could recall other trips to this place, the feel of the sand beneath his toes, the gentle roar of the waves…but not their wedding. Not the day that mattered.

Laura squeezed his hand, recognizing the disappointment in his eyes. "It could still come back," she reminded him. "And if it doesn't, I'll just have to make you marry me all over again."

It was an idea he'd been playing with, off and on, for the past few weeks. It wouldn't replace the memory of their real wedding, or his regret that so much of their past was still lost. But there was something in the thought of a fresh start, a new beginning, that he liked.

There was so much in his life he wanted to celebrate.

It would have to wait; the new semester was starting soon, with his very first class since the accident, and Laura was working long hours on Zarek's case.

"Please, could I win this appeal, so I never have to see the man again," he'd heard her mutter last night as he passed by her office.

It felt good to have life returning to normal…but he had a feeling he'd miss the quiet time they'd had together as things became busy again. They were already planning a trip for the end of the semester: to Boston, maybe, so Laura could show him where she'd grown up, or somewhere neither of them had ever been, so they could explore it together; they hadn't decided yet.

Maybe he would stand in the airport and the memory of their meeting would suddenly be within his grasp; maybe it would float back to him one day in class, as he made a point about trade agreements to bored undergraduates. He could still hope for that. He knew Laura did, too.

But for now, he smiled and lifted her hand to his lips. "Come on," he said. "Let's make some new memories."


End file.
